


there’s love that is a saviour (but that ain’t no love of mine)

by unethicalcoffee



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unethicalcoffee/pseuds/unethicalcoffee
Summary: She wants to talk to Catra about real things: to tell her that she loves her, her deep warm passion, her unshakeable loyalty, her courage. She wants to tell her that she makes Adora feel less afraid, more safe, like everything might be okay as long as they have each other. But Adora is afraid because Catra is never sober, and it hurts to watch her be in pain, and it hurts that Adora never feels like she can tell her how heavy her love feels, to share its burden. It hurts that Catra won’t — or can’t — just trust her.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62





	there’s love that is a saviour (but that ain’t no love of mine)

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning/content warning: depictions of alcoholism/alcohol abuse.

Our story begins, of course, with Adora: our loveable, anxious, somewhat clueless lead, drunk and lying face flat on a cold tile bathroom floor in someone else’s house. A party rages on outside the door, and Adora doesn’t quite remember how she got there. She drags herself over to the toilet, pulls the cover down over the seat and tries to sit on it, fails, and promptly slips back onto the floor. 

“Shit,” says a stranger. Adora looks at her, watches her laying in an empty bathtub with a bottle of whiskey in her hand, and a carton of cigarettes beside her head. She is reaching her free hand out lazily, half-heartedly. “You alright?”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Adora says, laughing. She is too drunk to feel the pain of falling in the first place, too drunk to know that she’ll feel it tomorrow, so it honestly _is_ just funny to her. The stranger laughs too, loud and squeaky and not at all what Adora expected, but really fucking cute. Adora gives up on the toilet seat and drags herself over to the tub instead. She rests her chin on the cold ceramic rim and looks at the stranger, who’s smiling a gentle smile. One of her eyes is blue, the other a yellow-ish green.

“You have a beautiful voice,” says Adora. The stranger’s smile falls, but only for a moment. “I heard you singing before I came in,” she explains.

“You mean fell in,” she laughs. Adora smiles, but is silent. She awaits some kind of explanation, you know, like, _I was singing in the bathroom at a party for such and such quirky reason,_ or, _I love singing, I’ve been doing it for so long, because of such and such moving, perhaps melancholy, but ultimately humble reason_. But no.

“I know I’m drunk,” she ventures instead, “but would you maybe wanna join a band? My band, I mean. Uh, me and my friends. We need a singer and you’d— you’d be perfect.”

The stranger arches a brow, her smile breaking into a grin.

“Whoa there, take a girl out to dinner first,” she laughs. Adora flails at her playfully. “Or… at least tell her your name,” she continues, more seriously, but still smiling. 

“Adora.”

“Adora,” she repeats. Adora watches her taste it. Her mouth is suddenly very dry (not helped by the alcohol, to be fair), and she looks at the stranger’s lips. “I’m Catra.”

“Hey, Catra.”

She giggles, but as she stops, her eyes begin to look heavy. “I’ll think about it. Can I ask you something, too?” Adora nods. “Can I kiss you?” She nods again.

  
  
  
  
  


Adora barely remembers that night, but she remembers _that._ She remembers the stranger, and her soft dark endless hair, her tobacco smoke old book worn leather smell, her callused fingertips like ghosts but so visceral. She remembers her scratchy firework laughter, and her voice — her voice! — its low timbre, its deep cadence. And she remembers asking. She might not remember giving away her number, but she doesn’t regret that, or any of it. Her heart is _throbbing_ , but it’s (mostly) nice, exciting and new and none (or less) of that scared a million ways this could go wrong bellyache imposter syndrome Adora. To do something reckless and stupid and wonderful, for once, she’s high on that. But now she’s staring at the words “hey adora” on her phone and she’s thinking of the question she asked and she _knows_ she has to tell Bow and Glimmer. Which, strangely, she doesn’t want to. 

“So I, uh,” she begins, immediately feeling their eyes on her, “asked a girl to join our band and, uh, also made out with her.”

Adora finally lifts her gaze to meet her friends’. Glimmer puts her caramel latte down a little too hard. The ceramic mug and saucer grate sharply, and Adora winces at the sound.

“You— you _what_ _?"_

While Glimmer looks like she’s seen a ghost, Bow is ecstatic. He bursts into a grin, almost too large for his face. Scratch that, Adora thinks fondly, no smile could be too big for his face.

“That’s so reckless,” he cries, “I _love_ it!”

Glimmer shoots him a disapproving glance. 

“ _No_ ,” she says, “we do _not_ back this! Making out with people and being in bands with them is messy, guys, this is literally the basics!”

“ _Au contraire_ , Glimmer,” he replies, wiggling his eyebrows at Adora, “it makes for _passionate_ music.” She puts her face in her hands and wishes could disappear — she breathes deeply, then re-centres the conversation.

“If you’d heard her _sing,_ Glimmer— and we need a singer—”

“We don’t _need_ a singer, Adora, plenty of bands are instrumental!”

“And precious few of those are famous,” murmurs Bow.

Adora looks at her phone again.

“Did you get her number?” he asks, knowingly.

“Yeah,” she replies, “but I was really drunk and now I’m not sure what to say. _Especially_ if you guys don’t want to give her a chance.”

“ _I_ do,” says Bow, crossing his arms over his chest, giving Glimmer a pointed glance. She groans.

“Fine,” she concedes. “She can _audition_.”

  
  
  
  
  


**hey adora** (13.54)

Hey! :) Is this Catra? From Sea Hawk’s party? (14.05)

 **yes dork** (14.08)

 **i thought about the band thing** (14.08)

 **assuming that wasnt just ur drunk ass talking shit lol** (14.09)

OMG I was totally serious!!! You have such a beautiful voice we would love it if you auditioned?????? (14.10)

 **auditioned?** (14.25)

 **u mean im not obviously perfect** (14.25)

You obviously are to me but my bandmates haven’t had a chance to meet you!!! (14.27)

 **ok i’ll audition if u stop abusing punctuation like this** (14.28)

Never!!!!!!!!!! :) :) :) (14.28)

Ok Catra please I was joking please audition I will never use an exclamation point ever again please (14.49)

  
  
  
  
  


Suffice to say, Adora is blown away by Catra’s audition. If her voice is beautiful when she’s singing into a bottle of whiskey in Sea Hawk’s bathroom, it’s on an entirely different plane on a stage. Glimmer admits that she can’t deny Catra’s talent, but she expresses concern about her lazy movements, about the way her body sways and her eyes are always a bit glassy, about her showing up late to audition and barely even knowing or caring that she had. Bow doesn’t say much, except that they shouldn’t turn her away, and when all is said and done (because of course it’s two votes against one), he suggests they get to know each other as band mates, go out for dinner or something. Catra says that sounds lame and she needs a drink (and Glimmer purses her lips), so they compromise on a karaoke bar.

Adora can’t stop thinking about kissing Catra. She wants to do it again, but she doesn’t even know if Catra remembers that they had, and Glimmer’s voice is in her head telling her that would be _messy_. She can’t be messy: she _hates_ being messy, she hates feeling out of control. The mere thought of it and her heart is racing and her chest feels tight and her skin feels too warm, too close, too real. But when she looks at Catra she thinks about the other night, and surrendering that control seems so… alluring.

“Hey, Adora.”

Catra hovers over her shoulder, watching her stare at the same drinks menu she’d been staring at five minutes ago, when Catra had left for the bathroom, with an amused glint in her eyes.

Glimmer and Bow are on stage belting it out. They don’t need to look at the lyrics — it’s Bohemian Rhapsody — and they occasionally take the same part instead of splitting it and overall they’re tragically off-pitch, but they are impressive at communicating through body language alone, assigning firsts and seconds and octaves with mere glances. They both have rhythm, if not tone. The perfect drum and bass, Adora thinks.

“Having trouble?”

Catra. Right. She’s _close_ , and Adora is too warm and everything is too much again.

“Is this okay?” she whispers. The amusement is gone from her face.

Adora looks at her looking at their hands. Catra’s is hovering just above her own, but isn’t touching it. Adora’s chest swells painfully at that — but again, it’s kind of nice. She nods and Catra holds her hand and it _aches_ that the kind of girl who seems like she takes whatever she wants and does whatever she wants won’t hold her hand without asking first. Later, Adora will remember this as the moment she knew she loved her.

“Too many choices,” she laughs awkwardly, trying to explain away her standoff with the menu. 

“How about I get you a drink, if you want, and we dance for a bit, and if you’re still not enjoying yourself then we leave?”

Adora decides to turn down the drink, but otherwise agrees. Fingers still entwined, they go find Bow and Glimmer, talk loudly about their favourite bands, argue about what they should call their own, discuss the implications of My Chemical Romance’s return. After a while, Bow and Glimmer call it a night, and Catra stays, orders a couple more drinks, and slow dances with her. She smells like whiskey and feels a little heavy in Adora’s arms, but her heart is full.

  
  
  
  
  


Adora is envious, really, of her reckless abandon (and she is so _very_ attracted to it), but after a while it begins to worry her too. Catra’s voice is always thick with emotion, on stage or off it, but when she sings it’s like there’s something bubbling under the surface that’s closer than ever to release, but hasn’t quite — can’t quite — make it. She wants to _talk_ to Catra about real things: to tell her that she loves her, her deep warm passion, her unshakeable loyalty, her _courage._ She wants to tell her that she makes Adora feel less afraid, more safe, and like everything might be okay as long as they have each other. But Adora _is_ afraid because Catra is never sober, and it hurts to watch her be in pain, and it hurts that Adora never feels like she can tell her how heavy her love feels, to share its burden. It hurts that Catra won’t — or can’t — just trust her.

Eventually she tells Bow. She doesn’t want to tell Glimmer because she feels ashamed, like Glimmer will say _I told you so_ and even if she doesn’t she will be silently disappointed, and _everyone_ knows that’s worse. 

“I’m proud of you,” he says. Adora blinks, unsure if she heard him correctly. “You heard me,” Bow insists, “I’m _proud_. It takes a lot of strength to know you can’t be with her like this.”

“But it fucking hurts,” says Adora. “What do I do?”

“I know you want to save her,” he replies — _I didn’t say anything_ Adora’s eyes say, and Bow’s reply _you didn’t have to_ — “but she has to _want_ to be better. You can be there if she ever really needs you, but you have to let her figure it out on her own.”

  
  
  
  
  


So it’s months later, after Adora stopped hanging out with Catra outside practice, after Catra smashed her guitar one day and quit. Adora is sipping on a drink and catching up with Mermista when a momentous crash rings throughout the house, and Adora rushes to find a small brown body at the foot of a staircase, twisted up and covered in blood. As if possessed, she shoves everyone aside, and holds Catra until help arrives, and follows her into the ambulance.

As she sits inside the vehicle, its siren ringing in her ears and in her skull, Adora holds Catra’s hand and cries, and everything is too loud, too close, and her skin is so _tight_. She feels like it’s her fault. If she’d only stayed — if she’d only said something — if she’d only tried to understand—

“Hey, Adora.”

Adora blinks. And then she does so again, adjusting to the bright light of the hospital room and the _lack_ of blaring sirens. It’s almost like she’s blacked out and awoken at another moment in time, and now Catra is awake, and looking at her. Her blue and green eyes are clear, and sharp, like she’s never seen them, but they’re dark, and not-quite-there. Adora feels uneasy.

“It’s so good to see you awake, Catra,” she says immediately. Catra looks uncomfortable, for a moment. Angry, even.

“Is it?”

Adora breathes. “That’s fair.”

They are silent, for a while. Adora doesn’t leave, and Catra doesn’t ask her to.

“Are you in pain?” Adora asks.

“Yes,” Catra replies, after a moment. She watches Adora reach for the buzzer, to call the nurse, and she interjects, “It’s manageable.” Adora nods and pulls her hand away.

“I don’t know if you remember what happened,” Adora ventures. When Catra is silent, she continues, “You fell down the stairs, at Sea Hawk’s. You were… pretty drunk. The doctor says you’ve broken some ribs, and an arm— uh, as you can probably— as you probably know.”

Adora’s heart rate is rapidly climbing, and the silence is beginning to weigh on her. Too heavy, too tight. “Is there anyone who should… know?”

Finally, Catra laughs. Adora is taken aback— then again, Catra never spoke to her about any family, or… anyone.

“Nah.” She pauses. “Actually, my roommates should know. Scorpia and Entrapta. They… are probably worried and sick, and I haven’t, like, been an amazing friend to them.”

Adora’s heart hurts. She thinks about reaching for Catra’s hand, but decides against it.

“And I haven’t been a good friend to you,” she says. “It hurt to see you the way you were, and I knew I shouldn’t try to, like, be all saviour-y, but then I just stopped entirely, and I should have just— I should have just been honest with you, Catra.”

“Honest about what?” she asks, quietly. 

“Honest about being in love with you. Honest about being scared for you, and wanting to help you. Just… honest.”

“Me too,” says Catra, to her surprise. “Like, I was angry and hurt that you were ghosting me. I still am. But I get it, and I did need to, I dunno, figure it out on my own.”

They are both silent again, for a moment. “Did you?” 

“I mean, I want to be a better person. I want to stop hurting the people I love. It’s just— it’s just really fucking hard. I feel so angry and tired, and so in pain, like, _all_ the time, and I don’t always know why. And sometimes it feels like too much. So I— I dunno. It felt easier, when I drank. And then it wasn’t.” 

Adora is silent. She watches Catra’s face change, watches her eyes become more present, watches her eyebrows crease, thinks about smoothing them out under her fingers and holding her face in her hands.

“I think we both could have been better,” says Adora, eventually. “I’m sorry for leaving you.”

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” says Catra. She reaches her still-functioning arm out to Adora, pleading silently for a hug. Adora, of course, is more than willing to hold Catra, and kind of wants to _be_ held, too. To take comfort in her tobacco smoke old book worn leather smell, in her soft dark endless hair. Her heart feels full, and — perhaps most astoundingly — light.

**Author's Note:**

> just a little something selfish. i haven't really touched the ATLA AU, i know, but once i got this idea in my head i couldn't let it go! for some reason i love to write from adora's perspective even though it's catra that i feel far more deeply connected to. wild. happy valentine's day?


End file.
